of about ten men was rolling up the canvas. A small forklift stood nearby, ready to put the tent into the white semi parked nearby. The trailer's aluminum side was emblazoned with red letters spelling out REVEREND ROBERT WILLIAM SIMMERMON MINISTRIES, WORKING FOR JESUS. Next to the sign was a painted picture of a handsome gray-haired man, whom I assumed to be the evangelist. A sleeper cab was backed up to it, but had not yet hooked on. It looked as if they were about ready to leave. A forty-foot motor home was parked nearby.
We stopped next to the trailer, got out of the Explorer, and walked around to the other side, near where the men were working with the canvas. As we cleared the rear of the truck, a woman stepped out of the door of the motor home. She came up short when she saw us.
'Can I help you?' she said. Her voice was soft and held the inflec- dons of the southland. She was about five seven and her high-heeled sandals added another two inches. Her auburn hair was thick and hung below her shoulders. She had the body of a woman who would do a bikini proud. I'm not much on fashion, since I usually wear a T-shirt, cargo shorts, and boat shoes, but I could tell that her clothes were expensive. She had either a large diamond or a beautifully cut piece of glass on her right ring finger. Several gold chain bracelets concentrated around her left wrist and clinked quietly when she moved her arm.
'I'm looking for Reverend Simmermon,' I said.
She smiled, showing me teeth that were so perfect they must have been the work of a very good cosmetic dentist. 'I'm afraid he's not here. I'm Michelle Browne. I'm his administrative assistant. Can I help you?'
'Do you know a man named Clyde Varn or maybe Jake Yardley?'
She was quiet for a moment, screwing her face into a little moue, as if thinking was not something she was used to doing. 'Can't say that I do. Who are they?'
'Same guy,' I said, 'but he uses both names.'
'I wish I could help.' She smiled again, and turned to a man who had just walked up, in effect dismissing me. The truck driver, I thought.
I interrupted before she spoke to him. 'When do you expect Reverend Simmermon?'
'Oh, he's already gone,' she said, turning back to me with a shrug and a smile. 'On to the next stop. The work of the Lord never stops, you know.'
'Where's the next stop?'
'Key West. Sorry I couldn't help.'
Logan and I thanked her and returned to the Explorer.
As Logan snapped his seat belt closed, he said, 'Mighty helpful little southern gal, don't you think? Did you notice that the last time she said `help' it came out `hep'?'
'I did. That's a little more country than she'd like us to believe she is. She's been working on that accent.'
'I think so. And she's mighty pretty to be a minister's assistant.'
'A little overdressed too.'
We sat quietly in the vehicle for a few moments before I cranked up and headed back north.
'Didn't Bill Lester say that some teenagers had disappeared from the North Port and Venice areas?' asked.
'Yeah, but he didn't say when. Aren't you reaching a little on this?'
'Probably so. But I'd like to check with the chief anyway.'
CHAPTER TEN
The traffic between Venice and Sarasota was brutal. The snowbirds hadn't yet gone back north, and the spring breakers were descending upon us. It took us more than an hour to go the twenty miles between the site of the revival and the approach to the John Ringling Bridge.
By the time we cleared the bridge and drove onto St. Armand's Key, it was dusk. Too late to find the chief at the station. We parked and walked to Lynches Pub and Grub for a drink. St. Armand's Circle is one of the more upscale shopping areas in Florida, a rival to Worth Avenue in Palm Beach. As we walked to the restaurant, I could see the area coming alive with the evening visitors. It was dinnertime, and the restaurants and bars would be full of vacationers. Foot traffic was picking up, people window shopping, enjoying the quiet evening in a gentle climate. There was a freshness in the air, and people were smiling, nodding hello to each other. Our barrier islands provide a sense of permanent vacation, even to those who live here year round.
We took a table on the sidewalk and ordered beer. I watched the passersby for a minute, many of them red from the spring sun that surprised them with its strength.
'What do you think?' Logan broke into my reverie about a twentysomething female tourist from Ohio, who wore shorts and a halter top. Or maybe she was from Arkansas. I couldn't tell, and it didn't matter. I enjoyed the view.
I shrugged. 'Why would Varn use his real name, or at least the name he was known by, and the Tampa address at the Sea Club if he was up to no good? Maybe he told us a partial truth. He was just having a good time getting to know young people. All that bullshit about his wife may have just been a cover. Maybe he's just a little hinky, and was embarrassed to be found out.'
'Could be, but why would a muscle man for the drug mob be entertaining young couples?'
'Maybe lie was taking a vacation.'
'I'd like to know who owned the condo he was living in.'
'I'd like to know why he was killed, and why on Longboat,' I said.
'Lots of questions and no answers.'
Logan had finished his beer.
'Want another one?' I asked.
He nodded. I signaled for the waitress.
'Two more, darling,' I said, wagging two fingers at her.
We sat quietly, sipping beer and watching the people on the sidewalk. Night had fallen. It was pleasant, the temperature in the low seventies and none of the humidity that we'd get by mid-May.
'Best time of the year,' I said.
'Without a doubt.'
'Another one?'
'No, thanks. Time for me to get home. I've got a refrigerator full of Chinese food to eat.'
I laughed. Logan's late-night forays to the Chinese food restaurant were the stuff of legend. They always left him with enough food to last a week.
I paid the tab and we left. We drove in silence across the New Pass Bridge and onto Longboat Key. A short way down the island, we turned into the drive leading to Logan's condo. The gate guard stopped us and then waved us through when he recognized Logan.
We stopped in front of Logan's building. I said, 'I'll call Bill Lester in the morning and see if he can tell us anything about those disappearances in North Port and Venice.'
'Let me know what you find out.'
'See you tomorrow,' I said, and drove the Explorer home.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The day begins slowly in our latitude. As the sun starts its morning trek from behind the mainland, the bay takes on a gray color, lightening slowly until the sun's rim rises above the horizon. Color seeps into the world, and the eastern sky turns deep blue with bright orange streaks. Soon, the whole round ball of fire is hanging above the mainland horizon, and another day has begun.
I was sitting on my sunporch, drinking a cup of coffee, watching the morning unfold. Nature's display never failed to arouse a feeling of contentment in me. I was where I wanted to be, living on an island separated from
